


Hollow Men

by cadmean



Category: The Malazan Book of the Fallen - Steven Erikson
Genre: Angry Handjobs, M/M, angry everything really, post TtH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 17:22:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6088110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadmean/pseuds/cadmean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Guilt, Cotillion has come to realize, is something even gods are not immune to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hollow Men

**Author's Note:**

> I ship it hard. 
> 
> Don't let the tags/rating fool you, though, despite my best intentions this is more plot than anything.

It was worry that drove Cotillion out of their shattered piece of Kurald Emurlahn, in the end.

Ammanas, high on his throne and flanked by Shan and Baran, only rolled his eyes when Cotillion made his intentions known, but despite the scowl on his face understanding glimmered in his eyes. He complained that it was too early, and that really, sentiment had never gotten anyone anywhere useful, and then, shaking his head, he pointed Cotillion back toward Genabackis.

His old companion made no offer to accompany him, knowing full well that Cotillion would’ve declined; and while Shan and Baran did follow him to the edge of the warren, they only softly rubbed their heads against his sides before turning heel and leaving him on his own.

As he stepped out of the warren and into the true shadows, Cotillion told himself that this was fine, and the way it should be, because this would need a delicate hand and Ammanas had never been anything but. Better he go alone for now, therefore.

His trembling hands he hid beneath the folds of his robe.

Ammanas’ advice, as always, turned out to be true. He found Dassem near the Moranth Mountains, huddling inside a small cave to shield himself from the incessant rain plaguing the region this time of year. Cotillion announced himself as he always did, that was, not at all, the shadows in one corner of the cave simply darkening for a few brief seconds before spitting him out into the fireglow light.

A moment passed as he simply stood there, leaning against the cold stone walls of the cave, and watched Dassem. Then Cotillion cleared his throat and with that came, perhaps, the biggest tell as to his old friend’s state of mind: Dassem's posture betrayed no reaction at all, and his face remained turned toward the flames.

It was to be expected – he had warned Dassem of what would come, that night in Darujhistan. But actually having it come to pass – _Rake kills Hood, Dassem kills Rake_ – was another thing entirely. More devastating, if Dassem’s mood was any indication.

Cotillion was torn – a part of him wanted to reach out and comfort his friend, while the other, more rational side was quickly growing wary of the situation. From where he was standing he couldn’t make out Dassem’s weapon, and with that sobering observation Cotillion recalled the sword’s twin names. He found himself hoping – somewhat desperately – that it was grief that moved Dassem now instead of vengeance.

Running a hand through his hair, he began, “Dassem—Ammanas and I, we want you to know that we’re sorry for what happened. For your sake.”

And now at last Dassem turned to him, and the rest of what he wanted to say caught in Cotillion’s throat. His old friend looked terrible, his face drawn and lined with exhaustion. His hair hung lank and ragged, and to Cotillion’s astonishment the beginnings of a rugged beard were beginning to show on his face – he liked to keep a close shave, and the last time Cotillion could recall that Dassem had forgone that was when his daughter had been taken by Hood.

There was a certain symmetry to be found here, Cotillion thought, even if it was a terrible one.

Dassem spent a moment glaring at him with dark-ringed eyes. “Are you? Are you truly sorry, Dancer?” Cotillion didn’t know what to make of the deliberate use of his old name, but Dassem went right on as if he hadn’t noticed at all. “Not enough to stop Rake from killing Hood – did it further your plans, to take that from me? My revenge.”

The last words came out as more of a snarl than anything. Cotillion drew himself up straight at the uncharacteristic anger in Dassem’s voice, and replied in a perfectly level voice, “You’re not after revenge, Dassem. You’re feeling guilty, and now that Hood is gone you have no target for your grief. It was their own choice,” he added with a cock of his head, “Rake and Hood. They planned for this more extensively than Ammanas and I ever could have.”

“That doesn’t change _anything_ ,” Dassem snapped, but even from where Cotillion stood he could see his shoulders stoop. Cotillion kept his silence, and it was with an angry, defeated scowl that Dassem turned back to the fire.

Silence enveloped the cave then, and Cotillion found himself loathe to break it for once. What he had told Dassem had been the truth: though he and Ammanas had profited from the death of both Rake and Hood, they had had almost nothing to do with the conception of the plan.

Still the fact remained that, while minimal, they had done their own share of maneuvering to ensure the most profitable outcome of the inevitable confrontation between the three ascendants. Ammanas, in the days immediately before that fateful night, had taken to muttering under his breath: _Rake kills Hood, Dassem kills Rake_. The words had become almost a wishful mantra.

Cotillion, silently, had added his own wish: _Dassem does not come for us_. Because as high as Ammanas and he had risen, Cotillion did not for a moment doubt that, should he put his mind to it, Dassem would be more than capable of killing them. Especially if he was angry. _Especially_ if he wielded Dragnipur.

Yet Dassem had not made a claim for Dragnipur, and had in fact left Darujhistan so quickly that Cotillion had missed his departure amidst the rest of the chaos. Ammanas later smugly told him that he’d planned for both of those things, but Ammanas, much like his high priest, was liable to claim a lot when the day was long. Dassem’s flight – for that’s what it was – spoke more of his state of mind than any planning abilities on Ammanas’ part, though, and Cotillion found himself worrying for their old friend. He hadn’t believed that Dassem would take Hood’s death this badly, to be sure, but in hindsight he should have expected it.

The incessantly nagging feeling of guilt on his own part was also something he hadn’t expected, but if godhood had taught him anything, it was that it was remarkably difficult to leave the all too human trappings of emotions behind.

Cotillion took a chance, then, and walked over to sit next to Dassem. He didn’t dare disturb the silence yet, and neither did Dassem seem inclined to say much. But he didn’t move away from Cotillion, either, instead seeming to almost relax a bit when their shoulders briefly bumped together.

That was good, Cotillion decided—he decided to press his luck further, because despite all the years that had passed he still considered the two of them friends, and it hurt to see Dassem suffering like this. He had no illusions about the fact that he wasn't the ideal person to comfort anyone and he admittedly found himself somewhat at a loss as to what to do; he'd never had much incentive to comfort people when he'd still been mortal, and now as a god he had decidedly different things to worry about. It had been different with Apsalar, of course, but Cotillion suspected that he himself’d had little to do with that. The girl was a marvel, and perhaps one of his biggest regrets was that he had ever made the decision to force the burden of his abilities on her.

“Listen, Dassem,” he started again, this time cautiously reaching out to clasp a hand around Dassem’s shoulder, in what he hoped was a comforting manner. For a moment it seemed as if he had grossly miscalculated: Dassem shrugged his hand off and stood up, face unreadable in the dim light – Cotillion stood up as well, eyes already searching for Dassem’s weapon but then, just as Cotillion was about to take a step back, Dassem stepped forward and grabbed him by the shoulders.

The kiss was unexpected but not unwelcome—Cotillion couldn’t help but think how in days long gone Dancer would have been delighted to have such an opportunity on his hands. It took him a couple of long, tempting seconds before he could gather together the self-restraint to push Dassem off, and even then he didn't make any attempt past that to move away.

Dassem watched him with an expression that hung somewhere between exasperated, annoyed, and amused, with a terribly sad smirk on his face that Cotillion wasn't going to think too much about for his own peace of mind.

He licked his lips. “Dassem—“

Now his friend really did roll his eyes. He brushed Cotillion's hands away from where they were still pressed against his chest and shoulder, stepped even closer and leaned forward to mutter, “Dancer, for once in your life: be quiet.”

Cotillion bristled at the use of his old name more than at the command, but then Dassem kissed him again, roughly, needily, and—yes, it was difficult to argue with that.

Even so.

“You’ll regret this tomorrow,” Cotillion cautioned, even as he pressed himself closer to Dassem. “And if not tomorrow, then next week, when you’re—“ He gestured at everything as a whole, trusting that his friend would get the idea. When Dassem grabbed at his wrists, pressed them back down at his sides, against the wall, Cotillion smiled and let him. “Or in a month. Two months. Perhaps—“

“I might, but _you_ won’t, will you?” Seeing the expression on Cotillion’s face, Dassem gave a dry chuckle and added, “Don’t look at me like that, you weren’t being nearly as subtle about it as you always thought.”

Which was a damning comment, considering that Cotillion had tried his hardest to not let his feelings show back when they had both been different people. Dassem had always fascinated him, and, though Dancer would’ve killed the whole of Malaz Island twice over before admitting it, he had always had a healthy amount of admiration for the empire’s First Sword. Years had passed and so had that admiration, instead changing into something else he’d never been quite comfortable putting a name to.

Idly he wondered exactly how long Dassem had known, and what it said of him – the both of them, truth be told – that he had chosen this moment to bring it up. It was a question for another time, though, and so it was with a begrudging sigh that Cotillion admitted, “You’re right. Dancer certainly would not have minded.”

“Dancer,” Dassem repeated, suddenly pensive. He raised an eyebrow. “And what of Cotillion? What ties bind you, lord of shadow?”

He considered the question for a moment before finding his answer, damning in its simplicity. “Old friendships and loyalties, it would seem.”

At that Dassem let out a startled laugh. Said, “But not when it comes to me, I take it,” and his fingers grew heavy around Cotillion’s wrist. “That, or your understanding of loyalty isn’t what it used to be. For decades I chased after Hood, and you – yes _you_ , Cotillion – you took my only chance at revenge from me. My only chance at peace, at a _resolution_.”

“What do you _want_ , Dassem? My apologies? I already gave—“

Dassem surged forward with an angry snarl, smashing their mouths together with enough force to draw blood. Cotillion wasn’t sure whether it was his or Dassem’s, just as he wasn’t sure how he ended up crowded against the wall, Dassem’s hands under his jerkin and his own moving to divest the other man of the tattered remnants of his overcoat – but it was easier, this way.

Easier to have his words suffocated by a moan than to figure out the best way to tell Dassem that while he was immensely sorry for what he’d put him through, some things were inevitable, and Hood’s death at the hands of Rake was one of those things. Unchangeable. Had it happened any other way, the whole plan would have failed and Dragnipur—Cotillion didn’t want to think of the consequences, had Rake failed. Didn’t want to explain them, either, not to a man who was still so torn between old grief and unattainable vengeance that it blinded him to all else.

Easier, therefore, to put one hand to the back of Dassem’s head and pull him in for another kiss.

They didn’t undress so much as push layers of clothing aside, going down in a tangle of limbs and dark cloth. Eventually they ended up naked with Dassem sitting with his back to the wall and Cotillion sprawled in his lap, trailing his hands down Dassem’s bare chest. He was damningly hard already, and it was with some relief that he noted that Dassem was not doing much better in that regard.

Dassem. Cotillion, when he had been younger, more foolish, and decidedly drunker had entertained thoughts of this exact scenario: Dassem right there in front of him, body bared and there for Dancer to marvel at. The two of them had always been more or less matched in height, but where Cotillion was lithe Dassem was pure, hard muscle. The sight stole his breath and lightly, almost reverently, Cotillion traced the path of a large scar that ran from the lowest rib up high to Dassem’s collarbone.

“I remember the day you got this,” he whispered, letting his head drop until he was breathing the words against Dassem’s neck. He placed an open-mouthed kiss to the skin there, soft, light, and for a moment imagined he could still taste the ashes of Darujhistan lingering there.

“Unta,” said Dassem, just as quietly.

“Unta. Yet we gave as good as we got, didn’t we? Always an even exchange. Always,” he repeated, somewhat more raggedly as Dassem suddenly gripped his hair and pulled until Cotillion was arching back, only to press a kiss to his exposed throat. It should have made him feel terribly vulnerable – and it did, yes, but with Dassem he found himself not minding the weakness.

“Where was the even exchange in your bid to have Hood and Rake killed, Cotillion?” Dassem’s words were almost to Cotillion as he let go of the grip on his hair to wrap that hand around his cock and gave it a few rough strokes. Cotillion leaned into the touch, breathless for a moment at the sheer pleasure.

“ _Cotillion_ ,” Dassem repeated, and it was with great effort that he pressed out the words, “It was their plan, Dassem. Their own choice.”

“I know you, and I know Kellanved. You wouldn’t have aided them if there wasn’t anything in it for you. What was it? What did your betrayal bring you?”

 _Betrayal_. The word stung more than Cotillion cared to admit – it hit much too close to the truth of the matter. Ammanas and Cotillion, they had both known the consequences: for themselves, for Rake and Hood, for the world. For Dassem. To have it thrown at him by one of the only two men he’d ever called a friend was harsh, and an entirely unwelcome experience. Unwilling to show Dassem just how deeply his words had bitten Cotillion gave him a long, pensive look – then, briefly bumping into Dassem’s hand, he reached between their bodies and took hold of the other man’s cock.

At the first touch Dassem grew still, watching him with hooded eyes. In any other person Cotillion would have called it hesitation, but with Dassem it was more careful deliberation – slowly, his friend reached out his free hand to run it through Cotillion’s hair. He was surprisingly careful, almost fond in his movements; a stark contrast to the harsh words they were flinging around. Even as he continued to do his best to look unimpressed, Cotillion couldn’t help but nuzzle into the touch with a small smile.

“Rake and Hood’s sacrifice,” he began, punctuating the last word with a deft stroke that drew a groan from Dassem and immediate, likewise retaliation, “brought hope. The opportunity to right a terrible, age-old wrong.”

“Remarkably altruistic of you.”

“I aim to surprise,” said Cotillion. It came out more as a moan than anything else, though. “Tell me, First Sword: Had you succeeded in killing Hood yourself, what would you have done afterward? Who would you have set your sights on then? The remaining occupants of High House Death, for being in league with Hood? The T’lan Imass, for not backing you when it mattered? Ammanas and I, for not being able to save her? Tell me truthfully, Dassem: your need for vengeance would not have been sated with Hood’s death alone, would it?”

Something sparked behind Dassem’s eyes then, grip of his other hand, curled around his hip, grew hard and bruising. Cotillion wasn’t sure whether Dassem was even aware he was doing it, for when he whinced, Dassem raised an eyebrow in surprise and let go immediately, hissing, “We’ll never know, Cotillion. You made sure of that.”

It was Cotillion’s turn to stop the argument with a kiss, lifting a hand to grasp Dassem’s chin and draw him closer -- and Dassem, thankfully, did not press the point. It was an admission of defeat on both their parts, Cotillion briefly mused, though he did not get to chase the thought, instead growing increasingly distracted by the expression on Dassem’s face, the sounds he was making, their hands wrapped around each other. Dassem leaned in for a kiss, biting and desperate, and Cotillion lost track of things in favor of pleasure until they were sagging against each other as they both reached completion.

They stayed like that for a moment, regaining their breath and some semblance of composure. When Dassem carefully untangled his fingers from his hair Cotillion knew that it was time – he stood up, turned away from Dassem to clean himself up and find his clothes. By the time he was dressed Dassem, wearing only his pants, was sitting in front of the fire again.

His eyes, however, were fixed on Cotillion, tracking him as he moved around the cave to where what remained of Dassem’s supplies were laying. Reaching into his warren, Cotillion pulled out several bags of food and waterskins, then set them down next to the others – next to where the Andii sword lay, sheathed in an old, worn scabbard. Cotillion found his gaze inexorably drawn to it, and it was only with great effort that he tore himself away from it and turned back to Dassem.

Noting Cotillion's glance, Dassem gave him a defeated-looking smile. "Grief," he said, so quietly that Cotillion almost missed it entirely. "I'll call it Grief, now. I’m done with vengeance."

Cotillion's eyes widened fractionally in surprise. "I am glad to hear that, Dassem."

“I thought you might be. I’m thinking of heading further into the mountains -- there’s a monastery near Mengal, I believe,” Dassem mused as he briefly turned to prod at the flames. “I could do with the quiet, for a change.”

Cotillion inclined his head in agreement. “Ammanas and I, we will not bother you any further. You have my word, First Sword.”

“You know it’s not the two of you I’m worried about; otherwise I wouldn’t have told you where I’m going. But I want my peace, Cotillion. No more gods. No more plans. I am _done_.”

“That I cannot promise,” Cotillion replied, and quickly added when Dassem’s expression turned stony, “but Mengal is isolated. If someone does come looking for you, you will have ample warning before they find you.”

“That will do.” Dassem turned his back to him, and Cotillion took the cue. The shadows enveloped him, and, with one last long look at Dassem, he stepped through and on back into Emurlahn.

Where he sank down immediately against an ephemeral tree, back pressed to it and head in his hands.

Cotillion sat there for a long time, and when he finally got back up and returned to Shadow Keep, Ammanas only gave him a knowing look and, for once, kept his thoughts to himself.


End file.
